


Amputee

by HappyJuicyfruit



Series: The Ups and Downs Of A One Armed Man (And His Idiot Boyfriend) [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, John Whump, M/M, Permanent Injury, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Being Idiots, Sherlock Trying To Help
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-11-06
Packaged: 2018-04-27 19:41:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5061493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HappyJuicyfruit/pseuds/HappyJuicyfruit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John returns from Afghanistan without his left arm.  Sherlock tries to help him recover.<br/>They find love along the way.</p><p>--</p><p>"Why ever not? You can walk fine, you can shoot fine, there's never been a problem on a case before."</p><p>"We've been extremely lucky!"</p><p>"Luck? I thought people call it skill."</p><p>"Skilled at what? At being an invalid? At being broken? At being a fucking functioning amputee?"</p><p>"An amputee? Interesting, you've never mentioned."</p><p>"I've never mentioned? It's bloody obvious you berk!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello ao3 people! 
> 
> I have never written a fanfic before, so please be gentle. I also do not have an editor (or as you guys call them a beta?), all mistakes are my own, and any constructive criticism is welcome :) 
> 
> I got this idea from reading a lot of hurt!John fanfic, all of which was amazing, but I thought I could add some more. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy :)

Pain. Pain was the last thing he remembered, searing through his whole body, wrenching him into blackness.

Pain was what he woke up to. It dragged him back, it gave the world a dull tinge, a grey setting, a sole point in the entire world. He lay still and could not focus on anything else.

Pain pulled him back down again.

 

Heat. The heat of the sun. The heat of the sand. The heat in his shoulder, down his arm, through his fingernails. The heat that consumed his whole body, feasted in his very heart as it fought for every beat. Heat that made his lungs ache, and his tongue sore. Heat was the only thing he knew. Heat and pain.

 

He wondered where he was.

 

Confusion. Pain was the last thing he remembered before this void, but he has to push that boundary. Flashes. Flashes of light, fragments of sound. They dance across his closed eyes, his deaf ears.

 

He had been in combat. There had been shouts for a medic. Had they been calling for him? Or had they been calling for him?

Those weren't the same question. Context. He needed context.

And where did his pain go?

 

Beeping. He heard beeping. He really heard it this time, he was sure of it. Shuffling, the squeak of rubber shoes on cheap linoleum, the shuffling of paper, the murmurs. It all added up to hospital. Excellent. Context, he needed that. Right?

He tried to open his eyes but found that he couldn't. Disappointing. Darkness came up to greet him.

 

Light. It crashed into his eyelids, stabbed him straight through his eyeballs and into his brain. Opening his eyes was not as great has he has hoped it would be. Disappointing.

Also, there was something else. Something about this sunlight. Something about the air as well, the smell, the texture.

He was not sure where he was, but John Watson knew that he was in a hospital.

John Watson also knew that he was no longer in Afghanistan.

Whatever had happened to him had been bad. Bad enough for them to ship him out. He didn't want to think about it.

His eyes fluttered. Darkness welcomed him once more.

He and darkness become quick friends.

 

Talking. English. London accent. Talking to him, talking at him. They knew he was awake.

They spoke gently. They spoke reassuringly. They spoke with warnings for the future.

"You were wounded in action Doctor Watson," "you're lucky you're alive Doctor Watson," "things will look better in time, Doctor Watson."

John hated them.

There could be no warning for this.

No warning for being told he had not been fully conscious for the last two months. That he had been discharged from Her Majesty's Army. That he would never be able to practice as a trauma doctor again.

No warning for looking at your right hand and being barely able to make a fist, and then looking to your left and seeing nothing at all.

Nothing.

At all.

A bandage around his shoulder, with no arm coming out if it.

It will get better in time his arse.

The doctors explained about the bullet wounds, the infection. They had tried everything to save the arm, but they had had to amputate to save his life.

Darkness could not help him escape this new pain, but it tried. And John was grateful for that.

 

\---

 

His pathetically small bedsit they had given him was depressing.

His limp every time he tried to walk away from his pathetic, small bedsit was depressing.

His fake prosthetic arm they had strapped to him was depressing.

Re-learning how to do things three year olds could do was depressing.

His therapist said he had PTSD, she said that he was depressed. He didn't believe her.

 

\--

 

Good old Harriet Watson. Reliable, loyal, and strong.

Reliable, in that she could reliably fuck up any situation.

Loyal, to her booze.

And strong headed in the most annoying of ways.

"I'mm better off without 'er!" Harry slurred as she swirled her red wine. They'd met at the pub closest to John's bedsit, the only considerate thing she did for him. "I'm fact!" She continued, oblivious of John's angry face, "I don't even want her gifts. You can have em." And with that, she put down her glass and began to rummage through her purse.

John said nothing and continued to stare at his coke, Harry continued not to notice that John had not actually spoken to her yet.

She ignored his missing arm, not even looking at the left side of his body, in favour of talking about her divorce from the one other person John had considered family. Unfortunately, the drunker she got, the worse she became. When she passed over the phone (which took about twenty minutes and a shot of whiskey to find) she pushed it so far to his left John had to swivel in his chair to get it.

When they said their good byes (half an hour later, thank god), she went in for a hug before stating "oh wait, can't to that anymore, can you?" and pated him on his remaining arm instead.

She drunk called him a few times, asking him to come stay with her in her new bachelor pad.

He kept the phone because he needed it, not for her.

He ignored all her calls.

 

\--

 

Looking for a job was pointless. Reconnecting with society was pointless. The only reason he ever left his bedsit was to get food, and he usually ignored anyone and everyone during that tiresome process.

The only reason he turned when Mike Stamford called him was because he was the first person to call him John in what felt like ages.

 

Like Harry, Sherlock Holmes also entirely dismissed John's lack of a left arm. Unlike Harry, it was not out of pity. Mr. Holmes saw his prosthetic and was not fooled like some, like Mike, into thinking John still had his arm. ("Oh god! I'm so sorry! Hadn't even realized!") He saw John. Just John. A military doctor who had been invalided home; if anything, Sherlock seemed more interested in his limp.

It was a nice change.

 

In the whirlwind that followed meeting Sherlock, the man still never mentioned his missing arm.

They talked about his job as a detective, they talked about Johns sister (/brother), they had an awkward moment of rejection (John had to at least try, even though he pretended that that was not what he had been doing). Sherlock cured his limp, John shot someone through a window.

A shot which, by the way, was done with his right hand. He had never shot with his right outside of target practice before. It was a perfect shot, but still, Sherlock of all people should have known how dangerous that was. But they just laughed it off. They went to Chinese. Sherlock did not mention John's awkward fumbling with the chopsticks.

It was everything John had wanted since he had been shot.

It was perfect.

Kinda. For the most part.

Well, it wasn't bad.

 

\--

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Living with Sherlock was both excitingly different and depressingly similar to his life in the bedsit.

 

Each morning he still woke up and relived the realization that his arm was gone forever. And then made it worse with the humiliating process of slipping on the prosthetic.

Each morning he stumbled downstairs (literally stumbled, the doctors told him he would regain his sense of balance in time) (their favourite bloody phrase: "in time") He continued to spend his days working on his right hand, applying for jobs no one would ever give to him, and ignoring all looks from strangers. These looks contained but were not limited to: sympathy, pity, disgust, confusion, fear, and lust. And he had thought the soldiers in Afghanistan had been weird.

Each night he would go to bed and hope that his dreams were arm and bullet free. They were not.

Those things did not change.

 

What did change, was Sherlock.

While John was stumbling about, Sherlock was usually already (or still?) splayed on the couch yelling at John to "bring me tea!" "And toast!" and "don't touch the toes in the sugar bowl!". Some days John was so flustered by Sherlock's brusk persona he forgot his missing left arm.

He always remembered eventually though. He didn't know if that was better or worse.

 

Sherlock's days were spent working on cases, a job he seemed to think John would also be perfect for. He dragged John to crime scenes regularly, even though John repeatedly told him he would be useless. No one wants to work with an armless invalid army doctor. He knew, he'd looked.

Sherlock ignored this and dragged him anyway. John was secretly pleased.

Sherlock probably knew that.

And oh, the cases were exciting. There were robberies and murders and international Asian smuggling rings. And Sherlock, he was the most exciting thing of them all. When he was deducing, on a roll and high on life (hopefully), he was magic. It was brilliant. John only wished there was someway to share this side of Sherlock with more people.

Especially since the biggest change that Sherlock brought into his life was the way people looked at him. As in, they usually didn't. They were far too preoccupied staring at the gorgeous, weird, frightening man than to notice his short sidekick beside him. And that was fine. Better than fine. When they did notice him, it was as a part of Sherlock, and still no one mentioned his missing limb.

Although that may be because John always wore his prosthetic with a glove on during cases, there was a chance they they honestly had not noticed (and Sherlock glared at anyone who looked like they were about to mention it (John did not know this second point)).

The reason he wanted to share his version of Sherlock, however, was because while Sherlock got more attention, he also got all of the hate. John was pity free, but Sherlock gained glares of hatred and resentment everywhere he went. John just wished he could make the world see that the genius was not the sociopathic arsehole he pretended to be, he was just a socially awkward idiot.

 

\--

 

For the first time since the end of his army days, John felt as if his life was finally moving forward. Sure, he was still jobless, and unconnected to society, and mostly friendless, and hadn't gotten in contact with Harry, but he has Sherlock. And he has Baker Street. And it was lovely.

His therapist did not agree.

"You need to assimilate back into the world, John. I know it's hard, but hiding away at this crucial moment is going to bring more consequences than you may think."

"I'm not hiding! I got a new flat, didn't I?" John sat straight on the couch that he was probably meant to be lying on, wishing he could cross his arms defiantly.

"And that was a big step," Ella replied calmly (damn her), "but I'm afraid that you've taken this new step as an excuse to give up."

"I have not -"

"How is the job search going?"

"...fine."

"Have you been on any dates lately?"

"No."

"Have you tried to reconnect with any old friends? Your sister, perhaps?"

"No." John put his arm across his chest. Sadly just the one made him look more injured than angry.

(Damn her again.)

“What about new friends? Have you spent any time with your new landlady without Sherlock around?”

“She's busy.”

"Have you tried working on your blog?"

John didn't even bother to reply to that.

"John, it would be highly beneficial to you to write a blog. To reconnect. To face what you are going through in a physical format." She paused, but John did not say anything, "If you have difficulty talking than writing down what you ar-"

"How am I supposed to write with one weak arm?" John interrupted through clenched teeth. They'd been over this, he was tired of arguing about it.

"Routine exercise should help build up your arm muscles. Have you been doing your exercises?"

John didn't reply.

"We've discussed other ways. Have you looked into the computer programs I recommended?"

"I thought the blog was so I didn't have to talk. Why would speaking into a microphone help me at all?"

"The point is to talk abou-"

John stood up, "you know, I think our times up."

"John, please, you have to talk about your arm. If not with me, at least with someone."

John didn't reply. Instead, he walked out of his appointment ten minutes early trying to convince himself that he wasn't running away.

 

\--

 

Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table when John got home, doing god knows what with god knows what body part.

John ignored this in favour of making tea.

Tea used to be so easy. Almost therapeutic, actually. Now it was just another reminder of how annoying Johns life had become. He always had to remember to turn the water on before picking up the kettle, which seemed like a huge waste of water. He could no longer grab the sugar and the mugs at the same time. He couldn't even open the cupboard and take out a cup in a smooth motion, everything was jagged and clumsy.

And after all that, after all those stupid added steps, the tea wasn't even the same.

Yes, it tasted the same. But John has always been a person to hold onto the mug with two hands. To feel the warmth up his arms and to his core. Now, it felt like only half of him would ever be warm again.

Crash. There goes the mug John's shaking right hand had not been able to hold on to.

John glared down at it, thinking about how hard dust pans were to coordinate.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

John started, nearly jumping at Sherlock's voice. (Nearly.)

"What?"

"Do you wish to talk about it?"

"Talk about what?"

Sherlock took his gaze off his mangled body part to give John a once over glance. "Bad therapy session?" He asked, all innocent.

John shifted, "it was fine."

Sherlock didn't seem convinced, "the offer still stands."

"No." John turned around and stomped up to his room.

He would worry about the damn mug later.

 

\--

 

The next morning when John stumbled down the stairs Sherlock was already dressed and pacing in front of the fireplace, texting away on his phone.

He didn't even look up when John entered the room, "get ready John! We have a case!"

John stopped and scrubbed at his face. It was too early for this (damn his army days making him an early riser. Really early. Like 6 am early.) "you mean you have a case." He replied, trudging toward the kitchen.

Sherlock did not bother to reply, instead rushing into the details of 'their' case. John ignored him to focus on making tea. Halfway through the process he realized the mug from yesterday had swept up.

"Huh."

"Precisely!" Sherlock trilled from the living room, "why would he paint it blue if he was moving to Canada?"

John had no idea what that meant, he merely nodded.

"Hurry up John, our appointment with the chiropractor is in an hour. We'll miss it if you don't stop dawdling!" Sherlock shot him a glare over his rapid texting.

John sighed, "Sherlock, we've talked about this, these are your cases. Not mine."

"Yes, we've discussed this at length John. Surely by now you know that I view you as an invaluable part of my work? Why will you not just accept it? What are you afraid of?" Sherlock had stopped pacing to stand at the kitchen entrance, mobile still in hand but all attention on John.

Things had taken an unexpectedly intense turn.

John shifted his stance, unconsciously straightening his back under Sherlocks stare.

"I'm not afraid of anything."

"No?"

"No."

"Then why won't you come?"

John paused. He shifted uncomfortably. Sherlock seemed to have a sudden realization and swiftly turned his back on John, back to texting on his precious phone.

"You have five minutes or I'm leaving without you."

"Fine," John replied. That's what he wanted anyway.

But as he stood drinking his tea and watching Sherlock pace about the living room, well..

He only lasted two minutes before he went upstairs to change.

 

\--

 

The case was exciting, John had to admit. It had them racing all across London, and John was able to help with his knowledge of back injuries.

By the end, as they both sat sweating and grinning in Lestrade's office, John felt almost... Proud? He had helped catch a killer. He had helped a man who would never be able to stand again get justice. John let that wash over him before he noticed Sherlock's eyes assessing him. Coughing awkwardly, John looked away.

Oh course, it had been a stupid thought. Sherlock had really done all of the work, John had just helped a bit.

Looking back he noticed Sherlock frowning. Sherlock opened his mouth like he was about to say something when Lestrade burst through the door.

"Well, you were right, the monster confessed to everything as soon as we brought up Canada."

Sherlock was still frowning over at John, John raised his eyebrows at him in questions.

Sherlock sighed turning toward the DI, "of course I was right. Can we leave now?"

"You have to give proper statements-"

"Wrote those out while you were gone." Sherlock replied in a tone that implied that he had an excuse for everything Lestrade could say.

Lestrade ran a hand through his hair, "fine. But if anythings wrong with the statements I'm hauling you back in here."

"There isn't." Was all Sherlock said before he waltzed out of the room, coat billowing behind him, like a goddamn runway model.

Lestrade turned his eyes to John with a much less weary look.

John smiled back, "sorry about him, of course we'll come back if there's a problem."

"Thanks mate," Lestrade grinned, "still waiting on you for that pint. You busy this weekend?"

"Um, I, well, yea-"

"No." Johns head swiveled as Sherlock suddenly reappeared in the room, "he's free Saturday. I've just texted you his number, I'm sure that will make things easier for future pub nights. John, coming?" And with that, Sherlock left the room once more, leaving a ruffled John to chase after him, and a confused Lestrade to check his phone.

 

\--

 

Sherlock liked to walk at a quick pace. It got him where he wanted to go faster, and it subconsciously reminded John that he was, in fact, able to keep up with him. And if it was just a little amusing that John sometimes gasped and stammered as he chased after Sherlock, well that was just an added bonus. But not why he did it.

When they left Lestrade's office he allowed himself a quick smile, his plan was working. If slowly.

The main goal for step one was to get the idiot to stop seeing himself as some handicapped nobody, he was John for gods sake. Viewing himself as someone who helps, as a friend, was not quite good enough but it was a step on the right direction.

John was demanding to know why he had given Lestrade his number as he lazily lifted his hand for a cab.

"Now I can have you filter all the boring cases," Sherlock replied with an obviously fake smile.

John stopped huffing and turned to grumbling. Saying it was for the work always shut John up, for some reason the man thought work was the only thing Sherlock ever thought about. While it came in handy for things like this, it proved to be a barrier John had set up between them.

If Sherlock was obsessed with his work, there was no danger of him getting close to John. And thus John could continue his life unattached to anything or anyone.

It was a rather odd protective shield to use. But Sherlock could work with odd.

 

\--

 

On the second day of their friendship, John had shot someone to save Sherlock's life; in more ways than one. Curing his PTSD was the least he could do to repay him.

Step one of his three part plan was well on it's way. Sherlock managed to drag John to a pub night multiple times, having to go himself was a justifiable sacrifice. He was also able to get John to spend more time out of the house, and if in the house, with Mrs. Hudson rather than Sherlock himself. While he adored Johns company, PTSD would not cure itself. John was still cautious and even afraid with other people. Sherlock was tremendously glad he himself had broken past that without even trying; but John needed other people in his life too. That's just who he was, even if he didn't want to face it right now.

So, step one was a work in progress, but a smooth work in progress.

Unfortunately, step two was much more difficult. Step two was making him face the past.

\--

 


	3. Chapter 3

John was getting very suspicious of his eccentric flatmate. Very suspicious indeed.

Sherlock kept dragging John out to different 'events': the cinema, dinner, pub nights with Lestrade, even a play. Every time John asked, he would say he needed to know what an average mind acted like in a regular lifestyle or some other weird answer.

He was somehow getting John to spend more time alone with Mrs. Hudson, although John couldn't prove it, or figure out why. The only reason he knew it was set up was because of Sherlock's innocent expression every time he left the room. John was much more comfortable around Mrs. Hudson now that they've spent some time together. Sherlock's smug face every time John turned his back in the woman was proof enough that the git had done something.

 

Sherlock was also bringing in strange things to the apartment. Like bright blankets, different ethnic foods, and a mannequin that was missing an arm and a foot (this made him uncomfortable, he didn't want to think of why).

Every time he asked if it was for a case Sherlock would role his eyes with a "yes John, a case. For the work."

John took this to mean that he was an idiot for even bothering to suggest it could be for anything else.

One plus to all this was John was getting to eat food that he'd been craving ever since he was deployed back.

Sherlock managed to find a blanket that looked exactly like one that John had left behind in the barracks, having not been the one to pack up his few belongings. When he mentioned this to Sherlock he only received a snort in reply.

John took to curling up with the blanket whenever he was lounging in the living room. It was nice.

 

\--

 

Step two was appearing to be more complicated than Sherlock has first assumed. Which was stupid, of course, he had known that John had loved being in Afghanistan, hell, the man had loved the whole damn war. That's why he loved to come onto cases with Sherlock, although he would never admit it. So the food and the blanket had been useless as triggers, but that was fine. It had set the stage. Readied John's mindset to think of not so happy times in Afghanistan.

The mannequin, luckily, had been quite a success. John barely acknowledged it's existence. Sherlock took to moving it around the room so John could not completely ignore it, although he gave it a valiant effort.

Step one and two were both in progress, although admittedly at very different speeds. Onto step three, solidify John a place in society.

 

\--

 

"I think you should become a permanent member of my work."

John blinked, looking up from the paper he had lying on his lap.

It was the middle of the day and Sherlock had been sprawled on the couch in his 'mind palace' for the better part of eight hours.

"I'm sorry?"

Sherlock scowled, "I think you should become a permanent member of my work."

"...what?"

Sherlock dropped his hands in defeat, "have you lost an eardrum recently or are you being tedious on purpose?"

"I heard you I just don't understand."

"Well, a permanent member means-"

"No I got that, thanks, I mean.. Why?" John pinched the bridge of his nose, he had been looking forward to an uneventful evening. They did not happen often with Sherlock around.

"Because you are a valuable asset."

John let out a bitter laugh.

Sherlock sat up, "you are. You provide knowledge in areas is medicine, military, and average life" John snorted at that last one (Sherlock ignored him), "you are able to provide instant medical attention as well as protection. And! You save me from Anderson. And small talk."

Sherlock finished and looked at John expectantly, as if waiting for another excuse he could argue against.

Well, have fun arguing with this one, "I would only slow you down."

"Why?" Sherlock's face did not change like he sincerely did not know the answer.

"You know why, Sherlock."

"John, although I regularly reference to it, I do view you as less idiotic than the rest of the London population."

John pinched the bridge of his nose, "thanks. But not quiet what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?"

"Physically. I would slow you down physically!"

Sherlock leaned back into the couch, all relaxed, "oh? How? You were in the army John, I hardly think I make you do anything near that strenuous."

John rubbed his face in irritation, "I think the key part of that sentence that you glossed over is that I _was_ in the army. I'm not anymore. I can't do those things anymore, Sherlock."

"Why ever not? You can walk fine, you can shoot fine, there's never been a problem on a case before."

"We've been extremely lucky!"

"Luck? I thought people call it skill."

"Skilled at what? At being an invalid? At being broken? At being a fucking functioning amputee?"

"An amputee? Interesting, you've never mentioned."

"I've never mentioned? It's bloody obvious you berk!"

John was standing, his hand was balled into a fist and he was looming over Sherlock. He didn't remember any if those things happening, but he did not seem able to stop it.

Sherlock, on the other hand, had not moved.

"Obvious? Yes, I suppose so, now that you've mentioned it. Why hadn't you before?"

"What do you want me to say, Sherlock? What are you playing at?" John turned to storm out but then turned back when something blocked his path, "Why is there a stupid useless mannequin in our living room?"

"Useless is a very telling word to use-"

"Don't answer. Never mind. Whatever you think you're doing, drop it."

John turned again, bypassed the mannequin, and slammed his way out if their flat.

"Well that.. Could have gone better." Sherlock said to the empty room.

 

\--

 

John walked, brisk and firm and almost military style. John walked, fast and jostled. John walked, a little waywardly, and almost into a bench. John sat down instead.

The worst part was that he didn't even know why he was so angry. He had been happy when the words first came out of Sherlock's mouth. He'd finally found someone who he could rely on.

And then he remembered that Sherlock would never be able to rely on him in the same way. And that had hurt.

Really hurt.

But that hadn't been Sherlocks intention, surely? Yes he did show some signs of Aspergers, but he would never harm John on purpose. If it wasn't for a good reason that is.

That's what John had thought, but what did he know? He'd only been living with him for a short amount of time. Everyone else thought he was a maniac, why didn't John?

God, this was mess. John sighed and closed his eyes. He needed time to think.

 

\--

 

Sherlock knew what perhaps it was not the brightest of ideas to follow after John in disguise. But, he was a lot of things, and an idiot was not one of them. The gun had not been for 'protection'. And while John did not currently have the gun in possession there were many ways to accomplish suicide in London. Sherlock knew this, he had thought of most of them.

John was sitting on a bench looking to the world like a man who had just found out his lover was cheating on him.

Sherlock almost laughed. If only. John was no where near ready for that kind of relationship, and may never see Sherlock that way.

Nonetheless, watching John look like he was hurt was painful. He thought about going up to John to apologize, but that might just make things worse. But what if-

John made a move to stand, Sherlock cutoff his train of thought.

He followed John through the city, to the underground. Finally they came to a shabby townhouse in the other side of the city. A women opened the door. She looked surprised, before giving John an awkward half hug.

Her facial features were similar to Johns, this was probably Harriet.

Good. John was safe. For now, at least.

Sherlock made his way back to Baker Street alone.

 

\--

 

When John arrived Harry was sober. It seemed like a miracle on this godawful day; although (John felt he shouldn't be surprised by this), she had just opened her first bottle of the night when he came knocking at he door.. At three in the afternoon.

John accepted the glass of red wine without a word. She hadn't asked why he was here, he could reciprocate.

They actually ended up having a decently nice evening ( it was shocking, really). They watched some tele, chatted about their childhoods, their careers. If they did not broach the dangerous topics they were fine. A rule John was learning to live by.

It was not until a rather tipsy Harry decided that they should go out at around 10 o'clock that things started to go downhill. John did not feel entirely sturdy while he was sober, let alone with a few glasses of wine in him. Nevertheless, Harry looped her left arm through his right and off they went.

 

\--

 

John had made this mistake so many times in his life that he couldn't even count them. This mistake has left him broke, injured, and once even in jail. This was the mistake of trusting Harriet Watson.

She had said she would stay with him, but right now she was off in the loo with some blonde with big tits. She had said that she would make sure he got home safe, but it was nearing 4 am and they had been in there for an hour.

Motion to his left made John raise his head from the table where he had dropped it in defeat. Harry had stumbled out of the toilet with the girl. The girl went towards the door, as Harry made her way back to him. Johns hope that perhaps his sister had not abandoned him after all were squashed when she gave him a wry smile.

Harriet Watson only smiled at someone when she wanted something, whether it was to fuck them, or fuck them over.

"Johnny!" She chimed as she leaned against his table, "having fun?"

John glared at her.

"Don't look at me like that, you need to get out more! C'mon, me and Tiffany are going clubbing! You should come!"

"No, thanks." John dropped his head back to the table, thoughts of how far away from Baker Street he was dancing through his head.

"Cmoooon Johnny."

Great, she had moved on to whining to get her way. Harry really did turn into a five year-

A tugging on his left side made John raise his head in confusion. Harry was tugging on his prosthetic to try to get John to stand.

Johns face turned bright red, in either rage and/or embarrassment, as he pulled his whole body away in an attempt to escape. He grabbed onto the table as he felt his stool begin to wobble.

Harry thought he was just tugging back, and she tugged harder.

"Harry, stop, that's my-" but it was too late. Overbalanced, Harry, John, table and all went tumbling to the ground.

Pain bloomed in John's shoulder. Whether from the sudden impact on a still tender wound, or because Harry had managed to dislodge his prosthetic and there was now bloody glass lying on the floor, John couldn't tell.

Harry, flustered that she had gotten beer on her posh dress accused John of tipping them over on purpose.

John didn't even look at her. He could barely breath.

His shoulder hurt.

Why?

He couldn't breath.

Where was he?

His shoulder hurt-

 

\--

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! :)


	4. Chapter 4

John opened his eyes to find grass. Lush green grass that one would not expect to find in a London pub.

John raised his head to find that he was in fact not in a pub, but in a park. An empty park. Leaning against a tree. Why..

"John?" Asked a soft voice to his right.

John felt too oddly calm to be startled by this familiar voice. Although why he was here John had no idea.

Turning, John saw that Sherlock was in a far worse state than the last time John had seen him. His clothes were ruffled, his hair was a mess, and he had dark circles under his eyes. John narrowed his eyes in confusion, he really did not think he had been gone for that long.

"Sherlock?" John asked.

"Yes, John?" Sherlock looked like he was bracing himself for something horrible.

"Are you alright?"

Sherlock blinked, and then began to chuckle, "yes, fine."

"What's so funny?"

Sherlock opened his mouth, but then seemed to consider his words, "nothing. Are you alright?"

John thought about that for a moment, "Fine."

"Are you sure?"

That seemed a little too caring for Sherlock, but then again this whole morning was a bit off, "yea, just.. Where are we? The last thing I remember was being in a pub. Now the sun's up."

"Ah, yes, we're in a park about 10 minutes walk from Baker Street, and it's around 7 am, I think." Sherlock answered, looking around the park.

"Right." That hadn't answered any of Johns questions. Well, okay, some of them, but not the rather important question of what the hell had happened. He still felt too calm to care. Or maybe he was just tired.

"Can we go home?"

"Yes. Yes of course." Sherlock hopped up to his feet, made a move towards John and then suddenly seemed to think better of it and walked past him instead.

John thought that it might be best to forget this entire morning.

 

\--

 

Things seemed to have...changed, between Sherlock and John. John couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something was different.

There were little things, like Sherlock always asked what take away John wanted to get before ordering it. He also seemed to be suddenly off Afghan food, which was fine, everyone was allowed new cravings. John tried to not be too disappointed.

Sherlock became more respectful of Johns personal space. He even put the mannequin in one corner of the room by the windows and kept it here. (Kind of funny actually, sometimes clients thought it was John or Sherlock looking down at them from the window.)

 

There were bigger things, like when John said to drop a topic, Sherlock actually dropped it.

 

And there was the biggest thing of all: Sherlock stopped harassing John about cases.

He still asked John if he would like to go, of course, but if John said no.. Well, that appeared to be that. No more whining, no more arguing, no more blackmailing. John was a free man once more.

So free that he actually decided to come on most of the cases Sherlock invited him to.

Without the constant arguments, John felt like they had become much closer. And sometimes, when they were giggling together at a crime scene, Sherlock would grin over at him with something new in his eye and John would be filled with pure fondness for the man.

He felt happier than he had in a long time.

 

Happy, except for two things.

First off, something had clearly happened the night of the Black Out (as John referred to it) that had made Sherlock change so much. John still did not know what had happened between the pub and the park. That was three missing hours that he knew he had not been drunk in. He was still too pissed at Harry to ask her what had happened. Sherlock always looked so uncomfortable when John tried to bring it up that John had stopped asking.

He could only assume that Sherlock had somehow saved John's drunk ass from wandering around London alone in the middle of the night.

He felt grateful for that. Even if Sherlock was clearly keeping something from him.

 

Secrets could be forgiven, or at least that's what he hoped, as he had a few secrets of his own.

John had a new pain in his shoulder. He felt like something had crawled under his skin and was trying to eat it's way out.

The amputee had felt a lot of real and phantom pain since his injury, but nothing like this. This had begun the night of the Black Out. He was terrified, but he couldn't get himself to look. He knew the risk if there was an untreated flesh wound on an already sensitive, pre-existing, susceptible to infection, injury. He was aware that he should tell someone.

Looking himself appeared to not be the solution either. He only took off his prosthetic while he was showering or in bed, and he had yet to look at the stump that was his left arm. The former doctor only hoped that the boiling hot showers and his antibacterial soap would be enough to deal with the wound he could not bring himself to directly touch.

The increasing pain in his shoulder told him that it was not.

Fuck.

 

\--

 

Sherlock was.. Well, he didn't really know. He'd never felt this way before.

He knew what he usually felt like when he was wrong but this was more like... Guilt. Was this guilt?

If so, guilt was unpleasant and he didn't know why other people partook is such an emotion.

And another thing, why was everything that John did making him feel warm and.. and.. fuzzy.

John was coming on more cases, and Sherlock was ecstatic, he really was, but John was starting to make his mind all... muffled? God these were horrible descriptive words.

When John was on a case, Sherlock spent more time watching him than thinking about the crime! No one seemed to have noticed, thus far everyone was still too slow to keep up with a preoccupied Sherlock, the incompetent morons; but John seemed to notice, as every time Sherlock looked over at him John was looking back. It made his heart go all.. fluttery.

 

It was not just at crime scenes either, it was all over their day-to-day lives!

John smiled at the mannequin in the corner, and Sherlock's throat clenched.

John looked at Sherlock with such gratitude when Sherlock respected his boundaries that Sherlock's stomach.. did something that stomachs were really not meant to feel, the internet mentioned butterflies?

John asked for Afghan take away and Sherlock said no, smell was connected to memory and Sherlock would not risk another flashback. Sherlock expected John to be angry at his constant denial, but every time he said no John would just look at him with exasperation, yes, but then he would be smiling, and his eyes would be warm, and Sherlock's fingers would feel tingly which was ridiculous because Sherlock was not even using his hands for anything let alone something that would make them tingle!

  


He had known he wanted to be in a relationship with John, he had wanted that since the first week they lived together and John had not run away screaming. He also knew that relationships required certain emotional attachment, but he had thought he was already emotionally attached to John. He wanted him on cases, if that was not caring, than what was?

The internet called fluttering and tingling and butterflies symptoms of a crush. Sherlock had never had a crush in his entire life, 32 year old men did not form crushes. That was just preposterous.

But things only seemed to get worse, and John was beginning to look uncomfortable.

Sherlock had to consult someone about this. So, he met up with the only person he knew who had sustained a relationship who also owned him a favour.

He was going to talk to Lestrade.

  


\--

  


Lestrade was sitting in his office when Sherlock burst in. He immediately stood up in alarm at the sight of him.

"What's wrong? A case? An attack? I just got your text about an emergency right before you got here."

"Sit down, Lestrade, I just need to talk to you."

Sherlock collapsed into the chair opposite the man, wondering if maybe he should have been less dramatic if Lestrade's face was anything to go by.

Lestrade slowly lowered himself back into his chair, "talk?"

"Yes."

"About?"

"John."

A confused look crossed over Lestrade's face but he had known Sherlock long enough to know it was pointless to stay confused with this man.

"What about John? Is he alright?" Lestrade asked.

"Fine."

"Nothing's happened since that episode a while back?"

"He's fine."

"Right." Lestrade tapped his fingers on his desk for a moment, "then how can I help you?"

"You're a married man, correct?"

"Yes?"

"How would you describe your.. Emotions, towards your wife?"

Lestrade blinked a few times, and then smirked, "depends on the day, I guess."

"Yes, but no, I mean," Sherlock scowled, agitated that he did not know how to ask this, "you..love your wife, yes?"

"Yea?"

"How would you describe that love?"

"Jeez, I don't know, it's love you kind of just know."

"Could you just try?"

"Hang on, why are you even asking this? How's this to do with...oh, no."

Sherlock fidgeted in his chair a bit, "what?"

"Please tell me I'm wrong."

"You usually are."

"But I'm right this time, aren't I? You're in love with John!"

"How would I know if you can't even describe the emotion?!" Sherlock stood up and began to pace.

Lestrade leaned back, watching him.

"Well, how bout you tell me what you're feeling and I'll help you out."

"I don't know, it makes no sense! Every time he's around, my mind goes all fuzzy! And my stomach feels wrong, and my hands tingle! But the same time I feel warm, and all of his smiles make me want to either melt or die."

Lestrade made a low whistling noise. Sherlock stopped pacing to glare at him.

“Why are you whistling? What does that mean?”

“Means you got it bad, mate.”

“Got what bad?”

“You've fallen very hard for our good Doctor,” Lestrade laughed, “I always knew all that sociopath stuff was a pile of bullocks.”

Sherlock growled, “how do I stop it?”

Lestrade was still laughing, “you can't stop it, that's just the way you feel.”

Sherlock collapsed back into the chair as he waited for Lestrade to stop laughing.

It took a little too long for his comfort.

“Could you stop? I'm serious!”

“When are you not?”

Sherlock frowned, “I need to stop it. John does not feel the same way.”

That sobered Lestrade. Good.

“Sorry,” Lestrade said, “I think you might be wrong about that though.”

“What?”

“I've seen the way he looks at you, you're not the only one with feelings. In fact I thought John might have been the only one with feelings.”

“What? But he.. But I- What am I supposed to do?”

Lestrade sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, “look, John's pretty quiet, but it's obvious he's been through a lot lately. Just give him some time, be there for him. And I don't know, maybe actually talk to him about this? If you both feel the same way it'll work out eventually.”

“That's your advice? Talking and time?”

“It's how the best relationships last.”

Sherlock arched an eyebrow, it seemed like there should be more than that.

Standing gracefully Sherlock turned to leave, “thank you for the 'advice', let me know if you get a case.”

“Always do,” Lestrade called after him as he stalked out of the office.

  


\--

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's a bit silly. Hope you're all enjoying it so far :)


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock was splayed on the couch when John got in with the shopping, murmuring things about time.

John bypassed the sitting room, going directly into the kitchen. He told himself that it was because he wasn't even bothering to ask Sherlock for help with the food because Sherlock would probably not even notice he was in the flat. It was not because he was avoiding the man.

It was not.

John knelt down to put some cans of beans on a bottom cupboard repeating his mantra that he was most definitely not avoiding Sherlock Holmes.

This mantra failed when John stood up and had to grip onto the counter for support when a wave of dizziness hit him.

Damn it all.

He was very obviously avoiding Sherlock; and for a very bad reason.

It had been three weeks since the Black Out and John's shoulder had not gotten better; it had gotten much worse.

So bad that John now had a constant low grade fever which meant his body was fighting off an infection.

So bad that he actually took his prosthetic off in his room at night, and put extra padding in it during the day. And it was still extremely painful.

So bad that if Sherlock had actually looked at John in the past week he would have very much noticed that something was horribly wrong.

Hence the avoiding.

John recently wondered if he might have some belated suicidal tendencies his therapist may have missed. But for some reason, even though he knew all of these things, John could not bring himself to look at his ar-stump. To look at his stump.

John sighed, leaning heavily on the counter top and thinking about taking another pill soon for his fever.

  


He nearly jumped out of his skin when Sherlock started talking, when had the man moved? He was like a cat!

"Are you alright?"

Such an easy question, but John was finding it increasingly hard to lie to this man, so although it was an easy question it was not actually easy to answer at all.

"Fine," he replied in what even he knew to be shaky voice.

"Are you sure?"

"Yea!" As a show of nonchalance John resumed to unpack his bag of groceries.

He was immediately stopped by Sherlock grabbing the bag from his arm, and continuing the process himself.

Much faster.

In all the wrong places.

"I could do that," John said weakly.

"I know."

"Right." John sat down and watched Sherlock put the tea bags in the fridge.

"John, I wish to speak with you about something."

Oh no. "What?"

"I know that you have been avoiding me lately, and I think I know why. I wish to discuss-"

"What? I'm not avoiding you. I just need to. I'm gonna go- I'll be back in a second."

John stood up and rushed into the bathroom.

God this was worse than he thought. Sherlock knew and he was just waiting for John to say something first. Why? To save John's feelings?

A month ago he would have thought that was ridiculous, but Sherlock had been acting strange for weeks.

  


John grabbed onto the sink, registering that he may be hyperventilating a bit.

A knock on the door, "John?"

"Aah yea, hmm. Just a. Ha. Just a second, Sherlock."

John turned the taps on and grabbed a cloth, running it under the cool water.

He placed the cloth on the back of his neck before rummaging through their medicine cabinet for anything that would take a fever down.

Sherlock was outside the door talking but John honestly had no idea what he was going on about.

Finally finding some pills, John popped them in his mouth and swallowed them down.

He immediately regretted that as they came rushing right back up again.

He barely made it to the toilet in time.

Fuck.

"John?"

Double fuck.

 

\--

 

Sherlock listened to John vomiting for 1 minute and 40 seconds before deciding that he needed to take further action.

The door was unlocked, not that it would have stopped him, but still, small favours. John was huddled over the toilet and he looked.. Horrible.

His face and back were covered in sweat and his eyes had deep shadows underneath them.

This was not a sudden sickness, John looked tired and worn. He hadn't mentioned anything though, was it the flu?

Sherlock took a step towards his friend but stopped when John pushed himself away from the toilet to get farther away from him.

John looked terrified, "please, don't make me go. I can't do it."

Another flashback?

Sherlock knelt down and held his hands so that John could clearly see them.

"It's alright, John, your safe."

"What?"

"Do you remember where you are?"

"Yes?"

"Can you tell me?"

John furrowed his brow and sat up a bit straighter, "in the loo of my apartment talking to my strange flatmate?"

"Oh, not another flashback then. What's wrong?"

"Flashback?"

"Never mind that, what's wrong?"

"What do you mean by 'another flashback'?"

"John, you are sweating and vomiting on the floor of our loo, could we discuss that later and focus on the now?"

The two glared at each other, John was the first to look away.

"I'm an idiot," John whispered, looking downcast.

"Yes, I agree, but why do you think so?"

"Gee, thanks."

"John."

John signed loudly, "I think I may have injured my shoulder on the night of the Black Out and now it's infected but I'm too afraid to look at if myself, and too proud to go to a doctor."

"Black out?"

"Uh, the night I went out with Harry and woke up in a park with you."

"Ah... John, that was three weeks ago. Surely of you had an infection it would be impossible to ignore by now?"

"Yeah. That's why I'm sweating and vomiting on our floor."

"Right,” Sherlock sat and watched John's laboured breathing, “oh my god," Sherlock stood up, "we need to get you to hospital!"

"Sherlock, I can't-"

"John, I value your opinion as a doctor, I always have and I always will, but this was beyond idiotic. You could have died!"

"Calm down, I've lived through worse."

"You lived through worse, in a hospital! Get up!" Sherlock tried to maneuver his arms around Johns, but John pushed him away.

"You stupid little man, let me help you!"

"No."

"Why not?" Sherlock screamed, still clutching onto John's right arm.

"Because I don't deserve it!"

"What? Why?"

"So many of them had families, Sherlock, little kids! I had no one! They should have been allowed to live, not me!"

Arm pulling was getting him no where, so Sherlock crouched beside his friend instead.

"I haven't even seen any of their families since I got back, I was too embarrassed. I don't deserve your help." A few tears began to leak out of John's eyes, this was dreadful.

"John, stop being a moron, you can go visit them after you help yourself."

"No... I should have just died there."

"No!" Sherlock growled, clutching onto John's arm harder.

"It's fine Sherlock, no one cares about me, it would all be fine."

"John I have just told you to stop being an idiot, I care!"

John glared at him, "wanting me to help with your work is not the same as caring, Sherlock."

Sherlock glared right back at him, trying to think of what to say to prove to John that he did in fact care a great deal for him.

When the words did not seem to want to form coherent sentences Sherlock decided on action instead; he would deal with the consequences later.

Moving quickly, giving John little time to retreat, Sherlock grabbed John on both sides of his face, and pushed their lips together.

It was forceful, and short, but god it felt amazing to finally be able to do this.

He reluctantly pulled his lips away, giving John a chance to tell him to stop. John said nothing, so Sherlock left his hands where they were.

He brushed John's tears away with the tips of his thumbs.

"I care." He repeated.

John blinked at him, "you care."

"Yes."

They continued to stare at each other.

"Come to hospital with me."

John nodded a few times before swallowing and answering hoarsely, "okay."

 

\--

 

It was worse than Sherlock thought, but better than John thought, so that evened out.

John didn't look as the doctor and nurse removed the prosthetic to inspect his wound; he watched Sherlock instead.

Sherlock was watching the doctors with fascination, and John was sure that he would say something extremely inappropriate any minute, but he never did.

The bastard really did care about him.

 

The doctors insisted that John stay the night for intravenous antibiotics. Sherlock attempted to insist that he also stay the night, but he was forced to leave when visiting hours ended.

He came back dressed as a doctor half an hour later.

John tried to talk to him, but Sherlock just sat in the chair beside his bed and told him to stop being a fool and to get some rest.

John thought that sounded like a splendid idea.

  


\--

  


To say Sherlock was panicking would be a bit of an exaggeration.

Instead, Sherlock liked to think of himself as highly concerned with John's lack of reaction to Sherlock pouring his heart out.

He had not actually poured his heart out, he was aware, but he had kissed John, and told him he cared; in essence, he had poured his heart out. For him, anyway.

And John had... nodded.

Which was... good? Maybe?

And when Sherlock had snuck in to watch over John as he slept – John had trouble sleeping in new places by himself – John had mumbled somethings and promptly passed out. Which was... fine. As John would say, it was all fine. He had been injured, Sherlock wanted him to rest anyway.

But now, now it was a whole day later. They had been back at home for two hours, and John had not even left his room.

That was... not fine. Not good, in fact. Actually, it was just plain bad.

Clearly Sherlock had made John uncomfortable with his declaration of love, and was now hiding away from him. Again.

The last time he had tried to talk to John about such matters John had ended up covered in vomit on the floor of their toilet.

Sherlock would just have to wait for John to come to him.

  


\--

  


John was panicking.

The stupid doctors at the stupid hospital had forbidden him from wearing his prosthetic. At least until his arm healed; but, even then, they thought he was wearing it far too often. The skin around his shoulder was shafted and swollen.

They had said that as a doctor, he should know better.

The arseholes.

What the fuck did they know about it.

And Sherlock acted like nothing was different! What if John walked around the flat without his prosthetic on, and Sherlock became just like everyone else? Disgusted by John's deformity?

He didn't know what to do. He would deal with it later.. when he had to go get food. In the morning..

Later.

  


\--

  


John had been in his room for so long that Sherlock had been forced to bring him meals.

This he did three times a day for two whole days without saying anything about how annoying it was to never be allowed in, or how unfair it was that John was not giving him a reason.

Sherlock would have thought that he deserved a metal for all these efforts if not for the fact that he was pretty sure that he was the reason that John was afraid to leave his room. Clearly now that John knew about Sherlock's feelings he could not stand to be in the same room with him anymore. This has not been the outcome Sherlock had hoped for when he had imagined kissing John for the first time, and had even had some hope that they could still remain friends when John let him stay at the hospital.. But, apparently not.

And as much as he hated to admit it, John deserved Baker Street more. He cared for the place. Mrs Hudson was the only person he really connected to, aside from Sherlock, and he could still get cheap rent, if Sherlock asked for a favour. The only thing between John and the rest of the world was Sherlock.

With a heavy heart, the tall genius went to his room to pack a bag.

 

\--

 

Sherlock stood between John and the rest of the world, to John's great relief. With Sherlock downstairs John did not have to worry about Sarah, or Harry, or even Lestrade showing up and asking where John had been. Sherlock would chase them all away. Now all John had to do was wait a week for his shoulder to heal, and he could wear his arm again, no one the wiser!

At first he had been nervous about walking around without his arm, but Sherlock had started to bring him meals. He didn't even question that John wanted to stay in his room, it was fantastic! Whoever said that Sherlock lacked empathy did not know the man.

Some part of him questioned if maybe Sherlock was only doing all of this because of that kiss they had shared, but John pushed it aside. Surely Sherlock had not meant that romantically? Who would want John romantically? A disfigured army vet with PTSD? No. He had convinced John he cared, and John appreciated it.

After John was able to put his arm back on, he was going to make Sherlock so much tea.

 

\--

 

John knew the sound of Sherlocks footsteps, so he was waiting beside the door for his food when the knock came. Confused, John glanced around in panic, hoping that Sherlock didn't come inside when John was just wearing a tshirt with no prosthetic on. Sherlock hadn't knocked since that first night.

"Um, yea?"

"I have brought you a sandwich and am leaving it at your door."

"Okay?" Sherlock had never felt the need to tell him this before, "thank you."

"Your welcome," there was a pause, but Sherlock didn't move away, "I'm also here to tell you that I will be leaving in the morning. You will be able to leave your room then."

"What, leaving where? On a case? I can't come yet, my arms not healed."

"No, I, you still want- ? I mean no, it's not a case." Sherlock sounded confused. Which was odd, for Sherlock.

"Then were are you going?"

"I'm moving out."

"What?" John was so shocked by this statement that he flung the door open without even meaning to. He was also too shocked to remember that he did not want sherlock to see him right now.

Later, John would realize that Sherlock did not even look at his arm, his eyes remained focused on his face, like he was drinking water for the first time in days.

"Why?!"

"I.. Thought that's what you wanted."

"What I wanted? Why?"

"Because I kissed you and then you barricaded yourself in your room?" John didn't actually know if Sherlock had meant that as a question or not, but it sure as hell sounded like one.

John's mind whirled. Sherlock would move out for him? He loved Baker Street! Where would he go? That kissed had been real? What were they supposed to do now? Where only a few of the questions that came to mind in this moment.

"Ah, I see," Sherlock sighed.

He did? What did he see?

"I am not the reason for your discomfort, but if not then..? Of course, the shoulder wound. PTSD. You haven't even thought of our kiss. I am.. An idiot." Sherlock turned his eyes to the ground and let out a self deprecating laugh.

John didn't know what to say. Sherlock didn't give him time to think.

"My apologies, take all the time you need. I'll just be," he gestured behind himself before turning and going back down the stairs.

John stood and watched as his friend (or more??) retreated. He wanted to stop him. He wanted to go down and join him. He wanted to do a lot of things, but he couldn't. He was stuck.

His friend, his best friend, who had basically poured this heart out onto John's feet now thought John hadn't even considered him in the past few days. And now John just stood and watched him believe that.

John felt like a right arse.

 

\--

 

Well that had been a humiliating if not valuable lesson. Do not tell those you care about that you care about them. They will not care. And you will only gain more heartache.

Heartache? Where were these words coming from! He was turning into a prepubescent drama queen! And by the look on John's face, Sherlock could tell that he was the only one. John had not even remembered what kiss Sherlock had been talking about.

If John, Sherlock's only friend, did not want to be with Sherlock, then, well, no one did. At least he had proof now.

Science, yes. An experiment. That's what it was. A proven hypothesis.

Time to shut and lock that door.

For good.

 

\--

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, it's not over yet ;) 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

The next morning Sherlock did not bring him breakfast. Nor lunch. By late afternoon John was hungry enough to venture downstairs. If he was being honest, it was not the hunger that brought him out, it was the fact that Sherlock had never actually said that he wasn't moving out, and John had not heard anything from the madman all day.

Upon arrival in the kitchen, however, it became clear that Sherlock had not left, but had exploded.

There were paper and plates everywhere. Chemicals in the kitchen. And one of the windows had drawings all over it.

John felt pretty sure that he would have heard this happening.

Walking into the sitting room found it to be in a very similar state. It also found the genius himself sprawled on the couch in his dressing gown. In his thinking pose, great.

"Ah, you're up, good. I'm on a case. Make tea," Sherlock nearly barked at him.

John ignored it in favour of a much more awkward conversation.

"You're not moving out, I see."

Sherlock didn't even turn towards him.

"No. Why would I move out? We're both happy with our current situation, I see no reason to change it."

John had a sinking feeling with those words, "Erm, Sherlock. About yesterday-"

"Never mind. It's fine. As you say, it's all fine."

"..right."

"Tea?"

And that was it. Sherlock went back to thinking, and John couldn't get him to talk again.

He made them both tea, and after some thought, he also made them both toast. Sherlock didn't thank him. Sherlock barely looked at him. Which made perfect sense, that's how Sherlock acted.

How had John not realized that Sherlock had not acted like that with him?

He had had Sherlock's undivided attention and he had thrown it away. And now he was.. furniture.

That should not hurt as much as it did. John wanted his Sherlock back. The one that laughed with him, that told him when a case arrived. My god, what had he been thinking? Of course the kiss had been real. Sherlock did not do fake with him, he never had.

John was a bloody moron.

He would fix this.. Somehow.

But it would have to be after this case, because Sherlock was up and pushing papers, tacking things onto walls, firing questions at John about gun types and motor oil.

John straightened and answered the best he could.

It was so normal that he almost forgot that he and Sherlock were not completely in sync at the moment.

 

\--

The case stretched out all night, and Sherlock, despite the doctors orders, was on his 40th hour without sleep. He did not eat when John offered him food.

“Sherlock, you have to eat something. You can't run on empty.”

John received a scathing look for that comment.

John tried to soldier on, “at least let me make you some tea.”

“Don't pretend you care, John.” Sherlock replied.

That shut John up for a solid minute.

“Sherlock, I – I care..”

But Sherlock had already blocked him out and was bouncing on the couch in front of the photos again.

John felt that he kind of deserved this. He had been so wrapped up in his own head that he had not even noticed how Sherlock felt. Looking back, there had been a hell of a lot of signs.

Looking back, Sherlock had flirted a hell of a lot on some of their cases. And John had flirted right back.

John sunk into his chair, running his hand over his forehead. How was he meant to fix this? What if Sherlock just got another case immediately after this one?

What if Sherlock didn't even want John on the cases anymore? He was barely involving him in this one.

John leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Might as well get some shut eye before the running started.

-

John awoke to someone nudging his foot; he looked up to find Sherlock looking down at him, coat and scarf already in place.

“What's up?” John asked, sitting up and wiping drool off his mouth.

“I've found a lead.”

“Right, good.”

John stood up, reaching for his jacket. Sherlock didn't move though.

When John was walking towards the door, Sherlock stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. The right one.

“Are you sure you wish to come?”

“Of course,” John replied, his brows drawing together in confusion.

“What about your.. arm?”

His arm, John had been so focused on helping Sherlock that he had forgotten he wasn't wearing his prosthetic. But he was trying to prove to Sherlock that he cared, and Sherlock was worth a million odd looks from strangers.

“I'm coming.”

Sherlock gave him an assessing look before nodding, “as you wish.”

John was pretty sure that Sherlock had not seen The Princess Bride, but hope flared up in his chest anyway.

  


\--

  


"Tell me about the suspect," John asked in the taxi.

Sherlock looked over at him. John rarely asked about the suspect, or the case in general, really. He just went along with the ride.

Was he still trying to apologize for not having the same feelings as Sherlock?

Or was he trying to establish that their platonic friendship remained unharmed?

He needed more data, but he didn't really want it.

With a sigh, Sherlock told him the cliff notes.

"Albert Doils. Serial killer. Targeted young men until the police tracked him down, he stopped for a few years, the case went cold. He's back. Different part of town, same general victims, same tactics. Midday disappearance from a park. Victims are never seen or heard from again."

"How do you know it's the same guy? Could be a copy cat."

Sherlock sighed and looked out the window. Any other day he would have told John that that was a good question. Not today though.

"He's catching the same specific victims as before, and several witnesses have mentioned a suspicious car. It's either the same person, or an accomplice."

“What's so specific about the victims?”

Sherlock leaned back, resolutely staring out the window.

"Sherlock?" John replied, sounding tired.

Sherlock didn't answer. He wished he could hate John like he hated everyone else.

But he couldn't.

  


\--

  


Sherlock stood, looking down at the fountain in the middle of the park they had arrived at. He looked somewhat forlorn, like someone had died or something. John, from his position behind Sherlock on a bench, looked around at the other people.

There were two women walking with strollers. A man walking and texting. Another man walking his dog. And a woman jogging.

None of them looked all that suspicious. Not that he had any idea what he was looking for, Sherlock wasn't telling him anything.

He wondered if this was how Lestrade felt.

Sherlock pulled out his phone and started texting. He shifted his feet a bit – the sign that Doils had made contact. But how? Through text?

John looked around, trying to find the man with the mobile again, but Sherlock was suddenly turning and walking towards the road.

What the hell?

John stood and followed, trying to keep a safe distance behind, but also trying not to lose the massive headed genius.

Someone looked at him suspiciously and John realized that he had not been succeeding very successfully with blending in. He pulled out his own mobile, hoping talking on the phone would make him less noticeable.

Unfortunately the only people in his mobile (other than Sherlock) were Harry, Ella and Lestrade.

John hit the call button with a grimace.

"Lestrade."

"Um, hey Greg."

"John! How's it going? Pub tonight?"

"Er, maybe."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Then why are you calling?"

"Um. Sherlock and I are working a case, and I'm trying to blend in."

Laughter came through the mobile, "what case?"

"Albert Doils."

A bang came through the mobile this time, "fuck, John, are you serious?"

"Yeah, we're at the park now. I think Sherlock's getting texts from this guy."

"Jesus, John. Do not let Sherlock get into a car alone! Do you hear me? This guy is dangerous, what the hell were you thinking?"

This made John pause.

"How did he even get the guy to contact him?" Lestrade continued, John could hear footsteps in the background, "You two love birds don't really match the guys usual broken hearted vic."

Lovebirds, "um we're not.."

"No, not yet. But practically."

"...umm."

"Fuck. What did you-? Never mind. I'm on my way. Do _not_ let Sherlock leave that park with him."

Dial tone.

Fear tightened in John's chest. Catching this man was not worth Sherlock, nothing was.

By the time John caught up to him, however, it was a bit too late. Sherlock was stepping into the back of a grey car.

"Sherlock!!"

Sherlock turned towards him, frowning.

"Stop!"

Sherlock started to move forward, but then someone behind him pulled him further in.

"No!"

John tried to launch forward, but something snagged his jumper from behind.

With a snarl, John turned towards the whoever had grabbed him, but then there was a pinch in his neck.

The last thing he saw was the sidewalk rushing towards him.

  


\--

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I don't really have a posting schedule. The rest will be up by next weekend though.   
> Thanks for reading everyone :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some warnings at the end for anyone who needs them.

Sherlock awoke blurry, his head filled with fog. Drugged, then. He shook his head, trying to clear it, only to ram it into his own arms.

Blinking, Sherlock took a look around. His arms were chained above his head, his body dangling above concrete floor. With some effort, he could support his weight with his toes. His arms were in immense pain but he blocked that out.

Scanning the room there was little else in there other than himself. The room was concrete, about 12 by 12 feet. His were the only chains hanging from the ceiling, proving his hypothesis that Doils only ever took one victim at a time.

He tested the strength of the chains. They were strong, and his arms had been tied above him long enough to make them useless to him. Dammit.

His only plans for escape would be through his captor, or..

John? Sherlock knew that they only took one victim at a time, but the last thing he remembered was talking to a woman in a car, and watching a hooded man grab John from behind. Albert Doils apparently did not work alone.

Sherlock looked around his cell again, he craned his neck to look behind him- there! John's shoe! Sherlock twisted his whole body, pivoting on his toes, the chains above him twisted together, but he was able to turn and face John.

John was still unconscious (one of cocaine's few perks, resistance to drugs), slumped against the wall on the floor. His right hand was handcuffed to metal hoop that looked like it had been newly drilled into the wall. Excellent! They had not anticipated that Sherlock would not be alone, they were panicked. Panicked killers made mistakes.

Maybe John was strong enough to pull that metal out of the wall?

“John?” Sherlock whispered.

No reaction.

“John.” Sherlock said, louder this time.

Still no reaction. He tried to kick out, but John was too far away to reach.

“John!” Sherlock shouted.

He was rewarded by stirring as John tried to pull himself into a ball.

“John, wake up.”

John tried to pull his arm down to him, he pulled hard. It didn't budge.

“John! You're tied to the wall.”

John's eyes flew open, much to Sherlock's relief. He sat up, back against the wall, eyes flying around the room.

“Good, try to pull the hook out of the wall.”

Instead of quickly following Sherlock's instructions to freedom, John focused his eyes on him. Sherlock realized they had more problems to deal with.

John's eyes were wide and unfocused. They were not the rational eyes of his doctor, but the wild eyes of someone who did not know where he was; or, better said, when he was.

“John, it's me, Sherlock.” Sherlock tried to sound calm. Maybe he could get John relaxed enough to snap out of it.

John started shouting. Not English.

“John! We are not in Afghanistan!”

John narrowed his eyes and stood up. He said something else in Pashto, or Deli, Sherlock didn't know where his soldier had been posted. He tugged at the handcuff aimlessly, probably testing it. With a soldiers stance he looked around the room, looked over Sherlock, head to toe, and then looked down at himself. John went rigid. His forehead wrinkled. He licked his lips. What had John seen?

“John, listen to me, we are in London. You were invalided home. We are _NOT_ in Afghanistan!”

John ignored him, his hand started to shake. He knelt down, turning his back on Sherlock, bringing his body closer to the wall so that his hand could..

Feel that his arm was missing. For God's sake.

“John, it's alright. You are going to be alright.”

Sherlock did not necessarily believe that, however, as John started to quiver all over.

“John, please, concentrate on my voice. Listen to me!”

John looked at him, really looked. For a moment Sherlock thought that he may have succeeded in getting his friend back. But then there were footsteps in the hallway.

John squatted down. He stopped shaking, eyes focused on the door. Ever a soldier.

The door creaked open. John started yelling in Pashto.

“The fuck is going on here?”

A male voice, one he did not recognize. This must be Albert Doils.

“Nothing,” Sherlock replied in a calm voice, not looking away from John, “just having a bit of an episode.”

John had stopped yelling, but he was glaring at Doils like he wanted to kill him with his bare hand.

“An episode?” Doils asked as he walked around to face Sherlock, “this isn't a goddamn TV show. Either shut up, or we will make you shut up.”

Doils backhanded him across the face, Sherlock tasted blood.

Bigger problem though, John started shouting in Pashto again.

Doils turned towards him instead.

“No! You're problem is with me,” Sherlock shouted. He needed to keep Doils attention away from John. His soldier was in no shape to fight right now.

“Oh, is it?” Doils leered at him, “seems like your problem is us.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “if that's what you think, you lot are dumber than I thought.”

Doils came up to his face again, nose to nose, “what did you say?”

“mm, you're clearly the brawn of this operation, can I speak to your manager?”

“Fuck you.”

“Eloquent. The manager, please.”

This time, Doils punched him in the stomach. Bloody brute.

A loud clang rang out, and suddenly Doils was pulled back, away from Sherlock.

It wasn't much of a fight. Even without his left arm, John had military training and adrenaline on his side.

John had him flat on his stomach, arms underneath John's knees as he sat on top of the man.

John's hand was on Doils head, he very slowly stated some specific Pashto.

“What? Mate, I don't-”

John slammed his hand down, knocking Doil's head against the concrete.

He repeated the statement again.

This was bad, not because Sherlock cared if Doils was injured, but because John would care that he hurt someone in this state.

“John, stop.”

To Sherlock's surprise, a rare feeling, John turned toward him and said, “Sherlock, you alright?” in perfectly fine English.

“Are you?” Sherlock asked.

“Are you alright?” John repeated.

“Yes-”

“Good, now, can you tell me what the hell you were thinking, coming to Afghanistan?”

Sherlock hesitated.

Doils tried to move away while John was distracted, John smashed his head onto the floor again, snarling in Pashto. Blood began to pour out of Alberts nose. Albert shouted out, threatening death on both of them if he did not get off; but John either did not care or did not process that it was in English.

Best to get them out of here, and then confront John's illusion.

“John, can you tell me where we are?”

John glanced at him, “we've been captured by Afghan rebels. We're in one of their caves.”

“We're not in a bloody cave!” Doils shouted.

“Yes, alright, who is it that you have pined to the floor right now?”

“One of the guards.”

“Could you knock him unconscious so you can unchain me?”

“I could, but..” John trailed off, looking lost.

“But what?”

“Sherlock, I only have one arm.”

“I'll kill you you bloody gimp!”

Sherlock winced, “yes. But, it's alright, John, you'll be alright.”

John wasn't looking at him, “if I had two arms, I'd snap his fucking neck.”

A shiver went down Sherlock's spine. If he ever needed confirmation that John could be a cold blooded fighter, that would be it.

John smashed the man's head down once more, there was an audible crack and Albert mercifully went silent. John sat and watched the man for a moment more.

“He's down, come help untie me.”

“No, it's not that.. sand doesn't usually sound so solid when you hit something against it.”

Sherlock hated that John knew that. “Strange, must be very compact due to how often they use this cave.”

John looked around, “they usually don't stay in the same place for long.”

“Odd, could you untie me now?” It was best to get the subject away from the fact that Sherlock had no idea what John was seeing. Also, his arms really were in an immense amount of pain.

“Right.” John began to pat down Doils.

“What are you doing?”

“Well if he's a guard he might have a weapon. Or keys.”

Sherlock snorted, “I really doubt-”

John pulled a ring of keys out of Doils trousers pocket. How did this man manage to kill so many people?

“This is almost disappointing.”

“What?”

“Nothing, hand me the key and give me a lift, I'll be able to unlock these quicker than you.”

After some maneuvering, Sherlock's dead hands were finally able to unlock the blasted cuffs. Once they were both back on solid feet, Sherlock removed the handcuff still hanging off of John's wrist, and used it to cuff Doils hands behind his back.

That done, Sherlock went up to the door to find that it had no door knob and only a key hole.

“Here,” Sherlock threw the keys at John, “find which key unlocks this.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Give him a more thorough pat down.”

Rummaging through Doils clothes, Sherlock found a knife hidden around his ankles. Whether it was for torture, murder, or protection against escaping victims, Sherlock did not know.

Sherlock heard a snort come from John, and looked up to see that he was still working his way through the key ring. While they usually laughed on cases, Sherlock did not think this would have been the time for it. “What's so funny?”

John glanced back at him, “nothing. I'm just usually shit with my right hand.”

“Perhaps you are more adept than you thought you were.”

“And another thing,” John continued, ignoring Sherlock's statement, “do you think I'm in shock? I mean.. I doesn't feel like I've just discovered that I have had a life altering injury.”

“It does not have to be life altering, John, unless you choose to look at it that way.”

“How could it not? I'm not going to be able to do anything anymore.”

John turned a key with a click, and then slowly moved the door open.

“I will let you finish your self deprecating rant after you have finished single handedly saving us from a kidnapping.”

John sent him a glare over his shoulder.

“...no pun was intended.”

Ignoring him, John peered out the door, listening intently. A second later, he popped his head out, looked up and down the corridor, and then popped back in.

John kind of reminded Sherlock of a hedgehog sometimes.

“Sherlock, this is strange.”

“No one here?”

“No-”

“Then let's go.” Sherlock pushed past John, opening the door into a concrete corridor. Sherlock instantly saw what was strange about it. While there were no more guards, or any living people, there were numerous skeletons lining the walls, more were huddled in the corners.

“Where the fuck are we? This is not an Afghan cave. There are not enough living people, and it is not hot enough.”

Sherlock did not answer, choosing instead to focus on the very worrying fact that something very vital was missing.

Sherlock could not feel any wind.

There was no breeze, there was no air movement at all. Sherlock walking quickly down the corridor hoping that he was wrong. Turning the corner bashed those hopes.

“Dead end.” He heard John murmur. He always did love stating the obvious.

Sherlock turned and ran down to the opposite corner to find the same result. He hated being right all the time.

“I don't understand, how can they both be dead ends?”

Sherlock ignored him, he had to think. How could they both be dead ends? Where had Doils come from? There must be a hidden door.

Sherlock began to feel his way down the walls, looking for cracks. He ignored John and his increasingly louder rambling.

He managed to feel his way halfway down corridor when John let out a particularly loud shout and tackled Sherlock to the ground. Sherlock's returning shout of protest was drowned out by John screaming Pashto toward a dead ended hallway.

“John, calm down.” Sherlock said as he tried to get his way out of John's surprisingly strong one armed grip.

John looked down at him and then shoved Sherlock down, hard. He then rearranged himself so that he was a solid barrier in front of Sherlock's now crumpled body. A wall between Sherlock and an invisible enemy.

“John, there is no one here but us.”

“Not yet, can't you hear them?”

Sherlock stopped moving and strained to listen. The only thing he heard was John's laboured breathing and his own pounding heartbeat.

“No,” he answered, making a move to stand.

John reached back and grabbed him, holding him in a crouch, “don't move,” he whispered.

“John, there is no one here.”

“Not yet, but-”

“No, John, turn around, look at me.”

Reluctantly, John half turned, only enough so that he could see Sherlock's face.

“Can you remember where we met, John?”

John nodded.

“Can you tell me?”

John shook his head, “we don't have time for this, Sherlock!”

“That is precisely my point, John, we have all the time in the world for this!”

“What are you talking about? The rebels-”

“There are no rebels!” Sherlock grabbed John by the shoulders (closer to his neck, really, no need to bring any more trauma into this) and turned him the rest of the way, “look at me, John, really look at me. We do not have the police, or paramedics, or sedatives this time to help you through this, you only have me. So, please, look!”

“Sherlock, what are you talking about? You're starting to scare me.”

“Good. I'm the only one in here who should be scaring you. Where did we _meet_ , John?”

“I-”  
“You remember I'm Sherlock, correct? Your flatmate? Where did we meet?”

“St. Barts,” John blurted out, finally. He started to shake, Sherlock squeezed his shoulders.

“Good, that's good, now, can you tell me where St. Barts is?”

“In London?” John looked confused.

“Yes, good. We met in London. We share a flat in London. How long has it been?”

“I don't-” John started to turn his head again. Sherlock moved his hands so that he as now cupping John's jawline, keeping his head facing him.

“Yes you do, you can do this. Look at me, how long have you known me?”

“A few months?”

“Yes, excellent John, now, if we have lived together in London for the past few months, how is it that we are in Afghanistan?”

John was trembling now, “I, uh, no. No, I must have.. I'm here. You came here.”

“No, no I didn't. Why would I go to Afghanistan? Why would you?”

“I don't..I don't understand.”

“You are having a flashback, or another post-traumatic stress episode of some sort.”

“But I can hear them, Sherlock! I can see the caves!”

“We are not in a cave, we are in an underground tunnel. In England. See?” Sherlock let one of his hands drop from John to feel the wall, “It's made of concrete.”

John brushed his fingers against it, blinking furiously.

“It's cold down here, you said so yourself. We are in a cold, underground tunnel, in London.”

“In London..”

“Yes.”

John twisted to look behind himself, “there's no one there...”

“No.”

“They would have caught us already.”

“Yes.”

John slumped against the wall and began to take deep and measured breaths.

Sherlock sat down beside him.

“Ella taught me breathing techniques.”

“Yes.”

“Ella's in London.”

“Yes.”

“We're in London.”

“Yes.”

They sat in silence for a few moments.

“We've done this before.”

It wasn't a question.

“The night I went drinking with my sister and woke up in the park with you, I wasn't drunk, was I?”

Sherlock sighed, “no, you had an episode similar to this. According to Harry, she pulled on your prosthetic and you pushed her away, and then barricaded yourself underneath one of the bar's booths.” Sherlock paused there, but John didn't say anything, so he continued, “the bartender was concerned, he thought you had schizophrenia or something equally ridiculous, he called the police. Luckily, when they arrived, one of the officers recognized you. He called Lestrade, who called me. By the time I arrived, you were in the back of an ambulance and had been sedated into an almost comatose state. The officers at the scene said it was the only way they could get you under control. I watched the security camera footage, however, and they barely tried, one officer gets shoved a bit and they sedate a war veteran into a coma,” Sherlock snorted in disgust.

“How did we end up in the park?” John's voice was neutral, as was his expression.

“I convinced them that it would be better for your mental and physical health to wake up at home rather than a hospital bed. Especially considering the initial event that started the attack was caused by your injury. When we were almost home, however, you collapsed. I did not want to force you, so I maneuvered you into a more comfortable position and waited.”

They sat in silence together once more until it became clear that John was not going to say anything. Sherlock got up and began to feel his way down the wall again. About two metres away, John broke the silence.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, John?”

“Thank you.”

Sherlock looked over at him, “for what?”

“For just.. being there.” John smiled.

Sherlock felt something in his chest explode, “of course.”

He turned back to his wall, ignoring the feeling in his chest. John clearly wanted him as a friend, that should be enough.

He would make it be enough.

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: violence, PTSD flashback 
> 
> Note on flashback: I realize that the flashback that I portray is more Hollywood than an actual flashback. I'm sorry about that but I don't actually know what drugs that knock you out do to a person, nor do I know what an actual flashback is like. I went with what I thought would be good for the story. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading everyone :) I hope you enjoyed it!


	8. Chapter 8

John sat leaning against the cold concrete wall. It felt like they had been down here for about a million years.

In that time, Sherlock had scoured the walls, the floor, the dead bodies, the walls and floor of the room they had woken up in, and then the walls in the corridor about five billion more times.

John had helped Sherlock feel his way down the wall at first, but after the first few times he had given up. Instead, John had looked over the man in the other room. Apparently, he wasn't a guard. That did not mean that John felt bad for hurting him.

Doils had still not woken, and judging by the head wound, John had some doubts that he would wake up any time soon. He was fairly certain that the man would not die, so long as they were able to get out of this place.

He had arranged the man into the fetal position, and then left him in there.

Now he sat with nothing but his own thoughts to occupy him. He had thought he was doing so much better. He had felt happy, and sometimes he never even thought of his arm at all. But maybe that was his problem, John thought with a frown, maybe he had to face his arm issues, before he hurt someone in another episode.

Not that he was expecting to have another one, especially another one like today. Flashbacks did not usually leave the victim seeing another world, maybe it was the drugs he had been injected with?

A loud bang brought him out of his thoughts. John turned to watch Sherlock move around the corridor.

John still had no idea why Sherlock took this case. He didn't know if now was the time to talk about it, or if he should wait until they got out.

But what if they never got out?

And as more time went past, Sherlock was just becoming more and more agitated.

Doils had removed their mobiles and John's gun. He had also taken their watches, but Sherlock somehow knew how much time they had been in here. John had stopped asking after the five hour mark, he really didn't have to know.

Currently, Sherlock was feeling the bottom of the walls, hoping that he had somehow missed something the first seven hundred times.

He only seemed able to think about getting them out of here.

John, on the other hand, was beginning to worry about dehydration. Food. Possible claustrophobia. They had already lain out everything useful that they had on them. Gum was the only food that they had. John was chewing on a piece now. He sighed as Sherlock drew closer, knowing that it was almost time for him to move. Again.

“Sherlock, maybe you should give it a rest for a bit? Go sit in your mind palace or something.”

Sherlock just shook his head, and then waved his hands at John.

John frowned, but moved across the hall.

“I'm serious. If you tire yourself out, we'll never be able to get out of here.”

“Transport.” came Sherlock's short reply.

“Transport?”

“My body is merely transport, I will not get tired or hungry, food merely slows me down anyway, I will get us out, do not worry.”

Sherlock apparently didn't think he needed to stop working to talk to John. Lovely.

“Look, I know. Flatmate, remember? We've had this argument before. But seriously, Sherlock, what are you doing? You can't keep walking around in circles, you are clearly getting no where.”

“I am fine, I will find a way out!”

“Alright, okay, I believe you.,” John raised his hand placatingly, “How about you just sit down, take a couple of breaths, we'll talk it through.”

Sherlock stopped what he was doing, but he didn't turn towards John.

“We'll talk it through? What do you think that will accomplish, John? Talking has gotten us no where. Talking is useless.”

“You once said that talking to me helped give you in sight, that I helped make you see the light or something.”

“Yes. That was before.”

“Before?” John's brows drew together, “before what? Before we got in here?”

“No, before.” Sherlock stood up pacing away from John, grabbing fistfuls of his hair.

John stood up to follow him, “before what?”

“I can not be in here John! My brain needs stimulus! I will rot away in a day!”

“No, don't change the subject, before what?”

Sherlock twirled, pacing past John. John followed.

“Sherlock!”

“Why does it matter? We're going to die in here.”

“If it doesn't matter, than why won't you tell me?”

“Because..”

“Because what?”

“Because it doesn't matter, John. You don't feel the same way, it's fine. Forget I said anything. Delete it.”

Sherlock had reached the end of the wall. He didn't pace back this time. Instead, he dropped his head against it, looking defeated.

John's heart hurt.

“I..I feel.. things.”

“That's nice, John.”

“No, I meant,” John sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, “I mean, you aren't the only one whose been having, feelings, lately, Sherlock.”

“John, I kissed you and you hid in your room for days. It's fine, we will remain friends, pretend I didn't say anything.”

“No, I'm glad you said something. I'm glad you kissed me.”

Silence.

“I've,” John swallowed, “I've been thinking about the kiss a lot, actually.”

More silence.

“I.. I'm really sorry, Sherlock. I wasn't in the right state of mind to appreciate it. But I would, I would like more kisses, in the future, if you'd be willing.”

John was getting afraid that the last words he would ever hear were going to be, 'pretend I didn't say anything.'

Until finally he heard a whispered, “Really?”

“God, yes!” John stepped forward as Sherlock turned around. They stood in front of each other. Close, but not quite touching.

“Even when I was hiding in my room, I thought about that kiss. But I was afraid, I thought you might just pity me.”

“I would never pity you.”

Sherlock looked confused. John had made the great Sherlock Holmes confused. He felt no pride in that, and took another step closer to the man, closing the last bit of distance between them.

“Yeah, I realize that now.. But I, I still don't think of myself as whole, Sherlock. I can't imagine why you would want a fragmented man.”

“You are whole to me, John. And if you are not, I don't care. I will take every piece of you I can get.”

“But I..” John felt tears rising up in his eyes, this was stupid.

“You what?”

“I'm broken.”

“My dear John,” Sherlock cupped his face, “so am I.”

Sherlock was starting to lean in but John didn't give him the chance, he pushed up onto his toes and smashed their lips together, pushing Sherlock back against the wall.

He would prove to Sherlock that his feelings were real.

 

\--

 

Warm. Stupid, he knows, but that was the first thing that passed through Sherlock's head when John's lips met his for the second time.

The man's lips were so warm.

Soft. John's lips, his hands on Sherlock's neck, Sherlock's hands in John's hair. It was all so soft. Even as they re-arranged, wanting to feel each others backs, arms, anything, everything; John's soft warmth was a constant reassurance.

Hard. John shoved him against the concrete wall, desperately pushing himself up against Sherlock's body.

But then..

The wall behind him was not as hard as he had originally believed. In fact, it was moving. Sherlock felt himself slipping against the cool wall as the structure moved an inch under their weight.

He pulled back from John, “oh.”

John blinked up at him, “oh?”

"John, you were right!"

John blinked, and then smirked, "this was your idea first, remember?" He tried to lean forward again, but Sherlock gently pushed him to arms length.

"No, I meant before that."

John's brows furrowed, "before what now?"

"Bef- here," he twirled them around so that John was leaning against the wall. He moved to the right of him, pushing both hands against the concrete. "The wall moved when you thrust me against it."

"I-I didn't-"

Sherlock turned to smirk down at the blushing man, "I didn't say I didn't like it. Focus, John, the wall moved!"

"What-really?!" Sherlock was already pushing on the wall again. He loved the man, but John really could be slow at times. Sherlock did not want to waste any more oxygen explaining when he could just get them out of here now! "Yes, now help me push."

John didn't even bother replying, immediately placing his feet firmly onto the ground and pushing against the wall with his right shoulder. He didn't even question if Sherlock was sure that the wall had even moved. Had he mentioned that he loved the man?

With their combined forced the wall began to slide an inch, two, until at the fourth inch there was a click, and the entire wall began to slide to the left. They both stood back to savour the gust of wind that came rushing in to greet them. Sherlock didn't bother to wait much longer before slipping through the small crack the door had made. John followed, scolding him for not looking for danger, but he followed nonetheless. After a shirt distance Sherlock rounded the corner to enter a wine cellar. And with this much dust, it was probably a private one at that.

Had they been in Doils basement the whole time?

He needed more data. And he needed to find the woman who had drugged him.

He lead John to the staircase exiting the cellar.

\--

Sherlock seemed to know what he was doing, so John followed him without question. Some would think of a certain 'shame on me' quote right about now, for as soon as they breached the top of the staircase a woman was waiting for them.

With a gun.

With John's gun, to be precise.

John froze and raised his hand. Sherlock did no such thing.

\--

"I always knew it wasn't a one man show," Sherlock drawled as he casually leaned against the door frame. He wanted to block John's view of the gun, he had had enough psychological trauma for one day.

"The police still haven't caught on though." The woman replied, eyes alight.

"Of course not, morons, the lot of them. Fortunately for them, they have me."

"But if I killed you now-"

"If you killed me now there would be a much larger search for me than for any of your victims.”

The woman's eyes flickered, “that doesn't mean they'll find you.”

“Doesn't it?”

“They haven't found us thus far.”

“Us? No, they just haven't found you. After this incident, Doils will tell them everything.”

The woman's face remained a mask, but she adjusted her grip on the gun and remained silent. The gun shook in her hand.

“Too proud to admit defeat?” Sherlock asked, before raising himself to his full height.

“I could still kill you where you stand,” the woman hissed, clicking off the safety with a shaking hand.

“No, I don't think you could,” Sherlock began to stalk forward, “you find a thrill in capturing people. You find it amusing to watch them panic and suffer. But when they finally die, you can't bring yourself to handle the bodies. You told Albert that you kept them in there so no one could find them, but in reality, you just don't like dealing with the mess. Two bodies with gunshot wounds is an awfully large mess.”

“I could drag your bodies back down there!” the woman yelled, raising the gun to point directly at Sherlock's face.

But Sherlock was there already. He reached out, grabbed her wrist and twisted, grabbing the gun when it fell out of her hand, and tossing the woman against the wall.

“You could have tried, but you didn't.”

“She didn't put up much of a fight.”

Sherlock turned to find John standing beside him. Apparently John had followed him in attack. Sherlock smiled at him.

John did not smile back, “how did you know she wasn't going to shoot you?”

“Her hands were shaking. Cold blooded murder is not her style.”

John frowned, “that was still risky.”

“I was right, wasn't I?” Before John could reply, Sherlock thrust the gun in his direction. “Watch her, I'm going to find a phone to call Lestrade.”

\--

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's right, they kissed ;D 
> 
> Just one more chapter and this story is done! :)   
> I'm thinking of writing a sequel but since I'm in school it may take a while. I'll let you guys know.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter folks! 
> 
> I would just like to say thank you for everyone who has commented or left kudos on this work. I have never posted a fic before, and you guys were amazing. I hope you enjoyed the fic :) 
> 
> I am writing a sequel right now, so I made this into a series. It's going to be more about the progression of John and Sherlock's relationship than about John's amputation (although it will be a part of it, of course) . I'm also diving into some of Sherlock's issues as well. So if you would like to read that you can follow the series! (Or don't, that's fine too haha). I will probably post the first few chapters in the next month or so. 
> 
> I have also posted another work for Sherlock, it has nothing to do with this one, but you can check that one too if you like. 
> 
> Anywho, thank you again for reading! You guys are the best! :)

John did not know why he was not thrilled. The culprits were caught. They were out of that horrible room. Lestrade hadn't even made them make statements. But as they made their way up the blessed stairs of 221B, all John felt was the unpleasant ache in his stomach.

As soon as John passed through the front door he turned to the kitchen to make tea. He really did not feel like thinking right now. As John pulled down a mug he noticed Sherlock sitting down at the table, and with a sigh pulled down a second one.

Ten minutes later they were sitting together in silence sipping their hot drinks.

Sherlock broke the silence first, “you're upset.”

John glanced up from his cup to find Sherlock watching him.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

John rubbed his hand over his mouth, “it's hard to explain.”

“Try.”

“It's just..”

“You're upset that I took what you view as an unnecessary risk.”

“Well, yeah.”

“John,” Sherlock leaned forward and placed his hand within reach of John's, but did not touch him. “I have always taken risks, you never minded before.”

“But we have so much more to lose now.”

“Do we? Did I not mean anything to you when we were merely friends?”

“No, that's not-”

“Our work involves risk.”

“I know that!”

“Would you prefer if I retired? We could go into the countryside, farm bees and ignore the rest of the world?”

“No, of course not, wait, bees?”

“Irrelevant, my point is, you are finally comfortable in the world again, John, the work is what did that. Risks and all.”

“No, no you idiot,” John reached out and grabbed Sherlocks hand, clutching it in his own, “that was all you! You made me feel alive again. What the hell would I do without you?”

John felt the tears in his eyes, but he wasn't willing to let go of Sherlock to wipe them away. Sherlock held on just as tightly.

“John, I am sorry for upsetting you, but I have to ask you to trust me.”

“I do trust you.”

“No, you don't.”

“I do!”

“You trust me?”

“Yes.”

“Than give me the gun.”

John hesitated, “what?”

“Give me the gun, I want to prove that you can trust me.”

John frowned, but released Sherlock's hand to reach behind him for his gun. He held it in his hand for a moment, before locking eyes with Sherlock and sliding it across the table.

Sherlock, smiling at him, picked up the gun. Then, without breaking eye contact, he lifted the gun, pointed at the ceiling, turned off the safety, and pulled the trigger.

John jumped back with a shout, covering his eyes with his arm.

“John.”

“What the hell, Sherlock?!”

“Look.”

John opened his eyes to see the damage, but there was none. The ceiling was fine, and Sherlock had put the gun down to watch John innocently.

“I don't understand. They were blanks?”

“Yes.”

“I don't even own blanks.”

“No.”

“Sherlock..”

“After the night of your flashback.” Sherlock looked down in embarrassment, “I.. may have gotten concerned and replaced your normal bullets with these.”

“What? Where are mine?”

“Hidden in my room.”

“For God's sake, Sherlock. So you knew? That whole time she was pointing a gun at us, you knew we were perfectly safe?”

“Well, there was a chance she had changed the bullets, but the odds were in our favour.”

John stared at him, and then he burst into laughter. After he started he couldn't stop. Full on, head thrown back, gasping for air, laughter. Sherlock joined in too, the pair of them shaking the table between them.

 

\--

 

Later that night, they fell in to bed together side by side. Sherlocks arms bracing both of them, and John's fingers curled into his curly hair.

Tongues twirled, hips pushed, and all Sherlock could think was that he wanted more. He wanted all of John Watson. But as he pushed his hand under the hem of John's shirt and felt John stiffen beneath his hand, he realized that he would have to live with only having what John was willing to give. It was still perfect until John started pulling away.

"It's fine." Sherlock growled, trying to regain his grip on his partners back. Thankfully John only pulled back enough so that they could look at each other.

"No-I.." John sighed, apparently unable to find the words.

"I don't care, we have time." Sherlock tried to reassure whatever was going through John's head so that they could get back to the kissing.

"Do we?" John whispered.

"Of course, all the time in the world," Sherlock replied before leaning forward and trying to reclaim John's lips.

Annoyingly, John moved back further.

"I still can't believe you like me."

"That's because you're an idiot."

"It's not that I don't want to.. With you.. It's just that. I, uh, my shoulder-"

"I've already seen it, John."

"But I've never- I've not looked at it."

Sherlocks brow furrowed, "never?"

John closed his eyes, "I couldn't do it."

"Well, you can just keep your shirt on then, for now."

John's eyes blinked open, tears brimming but not breaking through, "really?"

"As I've already said, it's fine, I don't care."

"But I'm so-"

"You believe you are lacking, but to me, you are not. I never knew you with both arms, the John Watson I know has always looked like this, and that is the man that I want, and have, in my bed. Do you want to be here?" Sherlock asked, smiling when John nodded vigorously, "good, now can we-"

The rest of what he said was caught off my John's mouth pushing against his own with a bruising force.

It was different than before, it was rougher, and far more satisfying.

John straddled his hips, kissing Sherlocks jaw, and then down his neck.

Sherlock moaned, but as much as he wanted this, he could feel John's arm beginning to shake.

Gently, he cupped John's face in his hand to bring it back up to his lips. He turned so that they were both lying on their sides.

John broke the kiss first, "this is going to give me a reason to actually do my arm exercises."

Sherlock smiled, but didn't reply. Instead he leaned in to kiss John's cheek,

his nose, his chin. They kissed and curled, and while nothing happened that night, it was a promise of more to come.

 

\--

 

Warmth. Soft sunlight warming his arm.

Warm blankets curled around his legs.

A warm body pressed against his own.

John Watson opened his eyes and looked down to his left to find a mad detective cuddled up against his shoulder where an arm was supposed to be.

He couldn't be happier.


End file.
